The Blood

it bleeds, my soul itself bleeds, no signs of coagulation.
Product of my pain, pain of love's derivation.
I turn the pages of my mind, replete with
imperfections, errors, suffering of my own creation.
Pain I cannot fight, beyond a blades depth, frantically trying to dig it out, through my razors laceration.
The blood, it falls, crimson tears attempting to wash away the years, I've lived in imagination.
To think that ever could I be loved by another, this soul that twists through a nether.
The blood washes these pages, attempting to purge thesuffering of my history, those arterial tears, become as a rushing stream, drink it all in, my wasted life, covered in the blood that issues forth from me, a reminder of my strife.

The blood, this blood that gives man life.
The blood, this blood, that covers my pain, in a torrent of scarlet tides.

I drain the blood to cease.
I drain the blood to please.
I drain the blood to become. Empty